She was late, the doctor noted, his annoyance mounting as the violinist span out that interminable final chaconne. She had already been late when the partita had started playing. Now she was unconscionably late.

Fidgeting irritably at his desk, Andrew Carlino glared resentfully at the clock mounted on the opposite wall of his office, as if it were somehow responsible for the inconvenience, mutely daring the contraption to tick off yet another minute with Ms. Godwin still not there. Eventually, inevitably, the clock did just that.

Realizing with a defeated sigh that his frustration was absurdly misplaced, the psychiatrist lowered his eyes to the file on his desk; he opened it and began to read it again, more to pass the time than to refresh his memory.

The file contained both medical records for Ms. Godwin and a referral letter from her primary care physician, one Dr. George Sokolov. Dr. Carlino knew Dr. Sokolov, had worked with him before. He was one of the good ones, and understood better than most of his fellow GPs what sort of referrals Andrew Carlino was interested in.

Evelyn Godwin. White woman, 67, widowed. Her emergency contact information listed just two relatives: one son, Blake, 45, and one grandson, Tariq, 20. Both were also surnamed Godwin. Much of her history was uninteresting: she had been reasonably healthy most of her life, but nowadays presented with some typical age-related physical complaints, along with bouts of mild depression. Lately, however, her mental state had become more unsettled. She had grown withdrawn and hostile and become obsessed with the idea that her grandson was transforming into some other person.

Dr. Carlino turned from the letter to the medical records. Dr. Sokolov had done his due diligence: appropriate physical and neurological tests, a basic mental health questionnaire, some common cognitive tests to check for signs of dementia. He had asked enough questions, and taken enough notes, to build a rough timeline for the development of her delusions, to present events in the context of the patient's life. It was a good referral; Dr. Sokolov had done everything a good PCP ought to under the circumstances, and nothing that one shouldn’t.

The chaconne was nearly finished. Dr. Carlino suspended his perusal of the file and waited for the music to end, then paused the recording before the next track could start. The office hung a while in expectant silence. The opposing clock ticked off another minute. There was still no sign of Ms. Godwin.

Grumbling discontentedly, Dr. Carlino restarted the partita from the very beginning, the opening allemande. Its linearity made a refreshing contrast to the involutions of the chaconne, exactly the sort of music his brain needed to think clearly. He briefly considered putting the allemande on repeat, but decided against it.

Returning his attention to the file, Dr. Carlino saw that Dr. Sokolov had indicated a working diagonosis: “Dementia-related psychosis. Delusional misidentification syndrome, intermetamorphosis.”

That final word was by far the most interesting to Dr. Carlino. Reading further, he learned that Ms. Godwin had been quite agitated on her most recent visit to her doctor, nervously recounting her last time seeing her grandson. He had been growing increasingly surly and ill-mannered lately, she said, probably on account of the company he had started keeping in “bad parts of town”.

On Tariq's last visit, she claimed, he had been especially nasty to his grandmother, and, she insisted, there was something off about him physically, as well, about the way he moved, among other things. She even mentioned thinking that his limbs looked too long, that he had more hair than usual. It was these last observations that had triggered concern in Dr. Sokolov, and motivated him to refer Ms. Godwin to Dr. Carlino.

The psychiatrist sat back and mused on what he had just read. Conflicting explanations, surmises, suspicions roiled about in his mind, their savage breasts only partly soothed by the music. He needed more information, a lot more. And he could not hope to have it until he had a chance to talk to Ms. Godwin.

There was still no sign of her. Dr. Carlino knew that it was premature to worry. It wasn’t *that* unusual for a patient to be late for, or even miss an appointment entirely, annoying though that was. Yet something was off. Dr. Carlino waited for the allemande to end before again pausing the music, so that the office would be quiet as he called the number in the file for Ms. Godwin.

The phone rang and rang before finally going to voicemail. The outbound message was one of those automated ones, rather than a personalized one from Ms. Godwin. At the tone, Dr. Carlino identified himself and his reason for calling, asking Ms. Godwin to please call at his office number. Once he had finished his message, he hung up and started the music again.

When that infernal chaconne came back on, he decided to try again, once again only reaching voicemail. Instead of leaving a message, he hung up and called the other numbers in the file, those of the son and the grandson.

The son picked up right away, with a dry, concise “Blake Godwin”. The ensuing conversation did little to reassure the men on either end of the line. The son had not seen nor heard from Ms. Godwin in a couple days. Until Dr. Carlino’s call, he had found that odd but not alarming; however, it was very much unlike his mom to miss an appointment. He asked the doctor to please call him as soon his mother showed up at his office.

After hanging up with Blake, Dr. Carlino then called the grandson’s phone number. The number rang and rang and didn’t even go to any sort of voice mail. He hung up and looked up the address given on the contact form for Tariq. It appeared to be a tenement on the South Side, in or near Gutter’s End. Not a nice part of town.

The psychiatrist rose up from his desk and began pacing. His vigil for Ms. Godwin had stretched by now into the evening, and his office had grown dark, so he flipped on lights as he passed their switches on his circuit of the room. Eventually his tour brought him to the console of his sound system, where Bach still hovered, waiting to bother him once more with his chaconne.

Dr. Carlino decided instead to change the music entirely, going to his usual standby: Scarlatti. The new music calmed him down enough that he was able once more to return to his chair behind his desk, where he then sat, musing, drumming his fingers absently to the music. One entire keyboard sonata had finished playing, and a second one begun, when his phone unexpectedly rang.

“Is this Dr. Carlito?” breathed a nervous man’s voice. “It’s Blake Godwin. Has my mother shown up at your office?”

The doctor frowned as he replied: “No, not yet. Look, I told you I would call when-“

“I’m at her house. She’s not here,” Blake interrupted. Alarm mounted steadily in the man’s tone as he spoke. “Her car is here. The lights are on, but she’s nowhere. I’ve looked all over. I have the key…”

Dr. Carlino adopted his best calm-but-firm voice: “Mr. Godwin, please listen to me. I do not wish to borrow trouble; however, it would perhaps be prudent if you called the police at this point.”

He heard a dismayed gasp on the other end. “The police? I…First my son ghosts me and now this. Oh, god…Do you think…?”

“I don’t necessarily think that anything has happened,” Dr. Carlino tried to reassure the other man. “But it is still important to take prudent precau-“ He noticed then that the line was dead, and looked down to see the “Call Ended” message on his phone’s screen.

He laid the phone on his desk with an exasperated sigh. As if commenting on the development, Scarlatti began modulating just then into distant minor keys. The doctor allowed himself a flash of amusement at that before considering his next move.

Blake had let slip that his son had “ghosted” him. It might well be a coincidence. But Andrew Carlino had gotten to where he was by trusting his intuition, and his intuition was now telling him that something was amiss.

He had not had a chance to intake Ms. Godwin, so she was technically not yet his patient. However, that didn’t make it alright for him to just share information from a medical record with third parties. Instead, he contacted the Bastion, to inform the Wardens that he was preparing to investigate an “anonymous tip” about a possible lycan-related incident at a South Side tenement address. That was a lie, of course, and the whole affair was an ethical gray area at best; however, Andrew Carlino somehow doubted that the Wardens would report him to the medical review board.

And it was better than having the police unwittingly stumble into a lycans’ den, should they follow up on a missing person report for Evelyn Godwin.

He stood there, in the dank, rotten abattoir that reeked of death and Logan in equal measure. He could smell his struggle, his torture, the bitter scent of defeat and loss. He stood there in his tattered clothes, ripped and ruined from his earlier endeavours, and for the first time in a long time felt ill-at-ease with how dishevelled he must have looked. One of his pant-legs was ripped off at the thigh. His shirt was little more than a rag, all of it bloody. Only his kutte was spared the destruction of the past hour. Small mercies. He never would have come before Logan this way. Dom, yeah. There was little to no judgement from Dom. Not for doing the job, at least. But Logan had expected them all to be better than they were. To rise above, if not in station, in action. He stood there with the girl's blood on him, and his own, adding to the stench of the place, and wished it hadn't been this way. After but a moment, he realized he couldn't move. Couldn't act, as he was transfixed by the sight, his senses. To have moved from where he was rooted, would have been to give in to the blood lust. To act on instinct, and tear limb from limb. To find the root of this evil, and dig it up with his bare hands.

What was before him, was no way for any of their pack to die. It was undignified. It wasn't a warrior's death, and Logan had most certainly been that, and so much more. Images and memories came rushing to him of the kind, fatherly mentor and guide Logan had been for him in his early years. If Dom had been a companion, an older brother and a yardstick to measure his own accomplishments against, Logan had been the wise sensei, a father on occasion, a calm centre to a place that could be wild and unpredictable, but also a fearless hunter, a ruthless tactician, and a damn good friend.

He found his emotions overtaking him, and fought to maintain control. His claws were out, and Kessler kept his hands balled into massive, powerful, dangerous fists until the claws dug into flesh, nearly protruding from the other side of his hands, and blood ran freely from his clenched meat. His digits swelled around the rings he wore, adding to the pain. He could feel the change in his jaw and shoulders, teeth extending, jaw cracking, reforming. He held it in check, allowing just enough of the change to envelope him that it hurt. Hurt badly. The pain was amplified when you fought it. He wanted it to hurt. He needed the pain. The pain informed many of his reactions, allowed the tears to fall.

Tilting his head back, he howled. An ungodly thing to hear, all barrel chest and unbridled power, pushing from diaphragm to throat, the howl was likewise centred in the current duality of his form, equal parts his human bass, and partly the beast within. It spoke plainly of anguish, pain, loss and betrayal. And rage. So much seething rage, he hoped the perpetrators of this crime were stupid enough to be nearby to shit their collective pants when his cry pierced their eardrums and told them that death was coming to collect.

The howl spoke all the things that Kessler might've said if he were prone to speaking his mind. Though it would be only dimly understood by non-Lycans -- intent more than direct translation, to those that mattered to him -- namely Dominic, and Lucian, it would be as clear a treatise as any human dialogue. When he was finished, the howl lasting far longer than the capacity of his lungs would seem to allow, he reverted fully to his human form, taking a deep breath to centre himself, before looking to his palms, seeing the wounds there receding already, and wiped the blood, his own, across his forehead and under his eyes like war-paint. Marking himself for the hunt to come.

He received the bottle from Lucian, and took a short swig. He squeezed, breaking the bottle into long shards, and pocketed one of the pieces, tossing the rest of the mess against the far wall, over a hundred paces distant, adding to the rest of the debris strewn through the old warehouse. He finally spoke, and though it wasn't to anyone in particular, there was no mistaking whose ears it was meant for. Together they would devise a way to unleash hell on those who had done this, and together they would see it out. His voice was mostly growl, tainted with disgust and anger at the horrible deed that lay before them.

"The motherfuckers... An eye for an eye won't cleanse this. This is a declaration of war. This ends any notion of peace." He was calculated, calm, though the rage was bubbling under the surface. Held at bay by the need to do right by his pack, and his dead friend. He stooped, getting close to the body, letting his razor-sharp senses do their job, equal parts forensic lab-rat and savage bloodletter. "No scent of vamp here. Faint human traces, but that could be circumstantial. There's a lot of wolf here, too. Maybe too much to be all from Logan." He paused, letting that settle in, or rather - unsettle. Didn't mean nothin'. Vamps could have covered their trail. Or bought off others to do their bidding. It seemed too big a hit for Wardens, but they'd been getting bolder. The idea that rival Lycans could have had anything to do with this nearly made his gorge rise. But the play to be made was Dom's choice. He stood, and turned to the two pack-members in silent question. The question was obvious: What now? "Word of this will be all over the Gutter by morning. If we're going to move, it has to be soon." He caught Lucian's eye, before stepping closer to Dominic. "At your word, Dom... anything."

Skeletal fingers rose up from the entombed earth. Row upon row of steel and glass that stretched to the edge of the horizon. Above, the sun, that golden orb of perfection, shone down from a tranquil sea of perfect blue. A shifting lattice of sapphire untouched by any clouds. Endless grids of black surrounded the buildings, parking lots gleaming as the asphalt baked.

The rental car was nondescript. Exceptional only in how utterly forgettable it was. Left beneath the blooming crape myrtles, the car was dusted with pollen.

The man, if indeed he was a man, sat inside the car with the windows rolled up. Unmoving, despite the afternoon heat that beamed mercilessly through the windshield, boiling the leather once again. He did not sweat into his pinstripe Oxford shirt. Faint vapor, wispy tendrils of smoke rose slowly from his skin in barely-discernible ribbons of grey. The heat did not bother him. It did not sicken him. Instead, it was the sunlight, brilliant and unforgiving, that slowly scalded him.

He watched. Sewage green eyes didn’t drift, they didn’t falter. He watched the white BMW X1, license plate ERF-88V, parked in spot 252. It was unoccupied and had been for some time. A fact which mattered little to the watcher.

Five, the digits of the clock inset in the idling town car’s dashboard read. Pheromones passed through the air, signaling the worker drone’s that began to file out from the building’s exits in undulating swarms. They wore uninspired businessware clothing, unflattering haircuts, and all the marks of complicit avarice.

The man ignored them, letting the insect-like waves pass over him. He watched and he waited. He started only when a woman approached the BMW, thumbing clumsily at her keyfob before she climbed in. He saw enough. She was not pretty. She was tall and slender, her neck too long and her face too doughy. Her hair was a birdnest of tangled curls. There was nothing to savor and he allowed himself an expression of disdain.

Heat waves rose from the hood of the BMW as she started the car. She waited, scrolling on her phone as the AC fought to drop the inside temperature to something bearable. He noted when she put her phone down, weary eyes looking forward as she peeled out of the parking lot in a stop-start-stop-start motion. He put the rental car in drive, sliding in behind her as she drove towards an intersection.

_

Caught in the rush hour traffic, the two cars were linked together in a long chain. The chain twisted, shifting around other cars. The chain loosened and contracted, but never approached the point of breaking.

The white BMW was never out of the man’s sight for long. There was practice in his driving. There was experience in every movement he made. And there was an inhuman efficiency. He knew the streets. He knew when to speed up to hug close to the car he was trailing. He knew when to slow down to hang back and keep his distance. He knew when to circle a block to avoid getting trapped. He knew when to simply keep heading straight, steadily following the flow of traffic.

Unnoticed, the spectacled man watched the woman driving with her eyes jumping from the smartphone she balanced in her hand and the road. At a light, he could see her sending text messages. His eyes spotted three distinct names. Three children. Something about dinner. Golden Wok or Ash Well’s. Time passed slowly, but with a steady inevitability she led him from the strip malls and drive-thru lanes to the sprawling suburbs.

_

The neighborhood was quiet. The streets were clean. The lawns were immaculate. The man in the rental car didn’t care. At a distance, he noted the driveway that the woman he still trailed pulled into. But to be sure, he rounded the corner of the block. He pulled over next to the sidewalk and idled where he could still see the driveway. Thirty minutes later, a white van, replete with luggage racks, ladders, and a company decal pulled in behind the BMW. At the hour, finally satisfied, the gaunt man took off, driving around the block to avoid passing the house. Unseen, he vanished back towards the city.

The sun had traveled far across the sky. The heavens were now more golden than blue. The man looked sicklier, clammier, and unsteady. Five minutes passed, and then ten, before he pulled in behind a bagel shop, already closed for the day, vomiting up chunks of congealed scarlet.

_

Crickets and cicadas crooned out their grating cacophony from beneath sagging leaves and rain-heavy canopies. The sun had begun to set, the sky afire in the west, but no vestiges of ghostly starlight emerged; not for the heavy quilt of clouds unleashing their grief, mirroring the road, drawing rainbow oils from the asphalt. Most windows along Frontenac Lane. still glowed with the 8pm liveliness of forgettable dinners, of mediocre sex, of helping one’s Mensa-hopeful children with their insultingly easy homework. And in the treeline across the street observed two predators, one taller than the other but just as scrawny; both wearing dark burner clothes and standing beside a dark gym bag. Inside a small hoard of burglars’ goodies were arranged: a good pair of bolt cutters. A nozzled can of WD-40. A rake pick. A skeleton key. A rubber mallet. A loaded Smith & Wesson 638.


Static symphonies flickered through the stale air of the darkened apartment. She watched half-heartedly as ghostly figures danced across the buzzing screens arrayed in front of her. The music coalesced into a murky soup, rising in a slow crescendo, notes stretching out until they became voicelike. Thin whispers that jumped with unwelcome anticipation. Jazz, played too fast, too pleasantly for the gloom of withdrawal.

Fuck, she said.

The rush was dead. The relief rotting beside it. Her half-dried hair lay plastered against her neck. Raindrops cooled over the cold sweat splayed across her skin. The folded-up futon was damp, but she didn’t move. She let her head loll backwards, studying the ceiling. Chipped pieces of green paint, faded to a shade of vomit, hung above her, reaching down like vines from primordial jungle.

Fuck.

Her tongue burned with rusting metal as the painted-over outlets leered at her. The tiny skulls horrified her even as she smiled in their direction. Her feet tapping to the phantom beat that haunted her.

She wanted another fix. She wanted another fix to feel again.

The coffee cup quivered in her hand. The smiling cats printed on each side twirled in a slow, hypnotic dance that sickened her. Her fingers moved out of habit then, pressing against ceramic long since cooled, as she studied her whitening knuckles from afar. She unclenched her jaw, putting the cup to her lips, forcing herself to drink. Swallowing clumps of milk and coffee, she coughed, their flavor soured.

Fuck.

Scattered bits of furniture surrounded her. Dropped in place at her own discretion. Minimalist in every way. Bright wood, washed in white. It didn’t matter. It didn’t hide her shame.

She had time. She was alone. She could walk out the front door. She could vanish. Just another forgotten name. Just another face lost in the neon glow of the city.

Except—except she needed the blood. They didn’t need to find her. They already had her.

Her pocket drummed, an electronic ring hammering against the side of her bruised body.

One ring.

The flip phone creaked as she opened it. Protesting where she would not. Could not.

“Showtime,” the voice said, before the line clicked dead as quickly as he’d opened it.

Eager. Hungry. A word full of teeth. Sharp promise that bit into the flesh of her neck and squeezed until she gasped for breath.

Stumbling, she rose to her feet. Slipping into the cramped bathroom. The drain was stuffed with rags. The faucet sputtered as she pushed it upwards. Water began to fill the sink. Pouring slowly over the edge of the vanity. Pitter-pattering onto the cracked tile flooring. Squelching as it filled small canyons of wear-and-tear. Following the slant of the floor under the saddle, onto the scratched up hardwood floor resting beyond the crooked door.

She dialed a memorized number, counting out the numbers to herself.

Two rings.

“Bertin?”

The panic came easy. The anxiety unforced. The worry merely transfigured as each syllable rolled off of her tongue. Playing pretend had already become survival.

“Yes, hello, it’s Klára. Klára Novotná in Apartment 3A? Yes, that’s right. I’m sorry to call you so late. But Mike, the supe, he won’t answer. I—it’s just there’s water all over my bathroom floor. I know where it’s coming from but I can’t get it to stop.

“You can hear it? Great! I mean, yeah, it’s—it’s bad. I tried, but the valve is stuck. Yes, thank you! I’ll put down some towels…Just please hurry.”

She snapped the phone shut harder than she had intended. The girl in the chipped mirror frowned back at her. Fear wet in her eyes. Disgust plastered on her burnt cherry lips. Bile rose in Klára’s throat as she steadied herself against the sink.

She deserved it.

She always did.

_

The white utility van sped pulled out of the driveway in a sudden hurry. And in the twilight, the woman in black smiled to herself, laughing silently at a joke that she alone perceived. She approached the cookie-cutter house with a cardboard box cradled in her hands. With a feigned stumble, she placed a tab of duct tape over the camera mounted above the doorbell ringer. She pressed and held the doorbell button, adopting her kindest voice.

“Hello?”

“Hi? Can I help you?”

“Hi. Is there a Bertin de Guzmán at this address?”

“What’s going on?”

“Ah, well—I live at One Seventy Six Frontenac, you know. I have a package here for Bertin? I think the driver must ‘a got the number mixed up.”

“I see. My husband actually just left. Just leave it on the porch and I’ll make sure he gets it later. Thanks.”

“Gee, miss, I guess. It’s pretty heavy, though. It might be expensive. And you know, we’ve had a rash of porch-pirates recently.”

“Is that so? Well—…”

The door cracked open, a tired, homely face visible in the gap as the gold chain pulled tight. That’s when the figure pressed against the wall, hiding low beyond the peephole and windows’ purview, lunged forward, bolt cutters slipping past the door frame, snapping the chain in one smooth cut. The woman in black shoved the door open with her shoulder. A low, panicked shout greeted her as Claudia fell backwards onto the floor.

Strong hands grabbed her. Pushing her down by her shoulders, turning her until she lay on her stomach. She groaned as her face was smashed against the polished tile. Her hands were pulled painfully behind her back, the woman in black tightening a zip tie so tightly about her wrists that she could barely move her arms. Blood beaded where the plastic tore and chafed.

Lifted to her feet as if she was no more than a toy, she felt the sharp tip of a knife pushed against her back. The other intruder latched the front door as the woman in black dragged Claudia into the living room, shoving her into a kneeling position on the floor.

“Don’t worry, it’s alright,” she cooed, her voice so kind, so sweet, “it’s gonna be okay.”

The man with the bolt cutters returned, bringing the children with him, already restrained, and mouths covered with thick cloth. He motioned for them to sit on the three person sofa and took a seat on the nearby reclining chair. Chrome gleamed against his black sweatpants, a revolver resting casually against his thigh. Surveying the situation, he smiled, a reptilian thing, cold and damp, that never reached his eyes.

_

Knock. Knock.

The pounding jolted Klára alive. Her legs moved her towards the door without her willing direction. In the silence of waiting, the mote of willpower she had been nourishing finally crumbled, layers of carefully kneaded dough, burning to ash as the tension spun the dials several steps too far.

There was nothing left to save. There was no way to avoid it. Not any longer. There was only the job. She had only to do her part. And she had only to see it through.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

She opened the door, with a forced smile, a pitiful expression molded out of desperation. A stout, short man in work clothes stood before her. He flashed her a lopsided grin, that seemed intended to reassure her. A trickle of sweat trailed down his forehead, leaving a furrow in the dirt and grime that covered much of his skin. She recognized him. It was her landlord. Bertin. She had met him only briefly when she had moved in.

“Please, come in,” she apologized, gesturing in the direction of her bathroom and the pooling water.

“Sure, let’s take a look at that—” he began, picking up his toolbox and stepping confidently into the apartment, though not without worries of his own. Worries of insurance claims and mildew and the recent prices of good lumber.

She shut the door behind her. Turning the deadbolt into place with a loud ka-thunk. She pulled the pistol from behind her back. Cold metal heavy in her hand. The safety was already off. She aimed it at him. Center mass. Fingers waiting next to the trigger. Just like Caleb had taught her.

He saw the gun. Saw it just too late. His eyes widened, a split-second of disbelief flashing across his face. He didn’t move. He couldn’t.

“You should sit down,” she said, embarrassed at his sudden plight. Bothered by the fragility that he wore like some fucking badge. As if it would protect him. As if it would save him. As if it made him better than her.

“Claire, hey, what’s going—”

“Don’t. Just—fucking do it. Please.”

She sighed, the anger fading from lips as quickly as it had appeared. It wasn’t his fault. She couldn’t blame him. Not entirely. She pointed helpfully at the chair she had left next to the couch. She had never liked it very much. He obeyed meekly. His hands raised up to his shoulders, held out in front of him, palms facing towards her. Shifting the gun into her right hand, Klára placed her flip phone on the table in front of him with her free hand. From her pocket she fished out a scrap of paper with a number neatly printed on it. Putting it into the phone, she nodded at the two objects, never moving her eyes aways from the sights which pointed unerringly at Bertin.

“Someone wants to talk to you.”

Date: Unknown
Time: Unknown
Location: Unkn—Clayton’s workshop.
Interaction: Open to anyone


Oblivion—

—Oblivious.

There was something peaceful to be found in the deep, dark depths of the abyss.
A sweet silence. The serene solitude.
The still, endless, total, absolute nothingness.
It was a peace reserved only for those counted amongst the dead.
Unfortunately for Clay, he couldn’t consider himself as one of them—not yet.
No matter how close he might feel.

And as history has taught us time and time again, peace is only ever temporary.
There were no exceptions here.

. . . .

A single stray beam of light filtered through a cracked window high above, glimmering as it descended, dancing through unsettled dust. It searched purposefully until it found Clay’s innocent, unsuspecting face. Landing on it with all the force and ferocity of a thousand suns.
A guttural groan of protest escaped the lycan’s dry, cracked lips as he tossed his head, vainly trying to escape his unseen tormentor. But every sluggish movement brought on its own unique kind of torture.
In his anguish, a sudden dry cough tore its way from his lungs, awakening him with more unrelenting pains as the jagged, rasping breath broke free.
Everything ached. Every movement, every blink, every breath. His mouth was parched, his throat raw, his head filled with a relentless thunder. As the fit subsided and he drifted closer to the world of the living, he was met with a punishing cacophony of sounds lashing at his sensitive ears.

A fly with a personal grudge against him beat its wings maliciously overhead. A nearby stranger’s soft sleeping breath roared like a chainsaw in his ears. Even the building, disturbed by the slightest shift, didn’t creak—it wailed, loudly, with the voice of a thousand lost souls. Somewhere in a distant realm, beastly hounds howled for his soul, splitting his skull with every cry.
There was no escape.

Blinking heavily, trying to banish the blurry blobs and smudged shadows clouding his vision, he accepted the truth.
He was in hell.

Not the fire-and-brimstone kind from ancient sermons. Something worse. Drier. Louder.
Crafted from stale air, old carpet, and regret.

He could do little but lay there, defeated, and breathe.
Each breath heightened his awareness of the smells around him, every one of them settling on his tongue like a punishment.
The air was thick with the sharp tang of familiar ale. The slow rot of something long overdue for the bin. Smoke, old and bitter, soaked into every fibre of the furniture.
A ghost of cheap perfume—sickly and sweet—clung to the air like an unwanted memory.
And beneath it all, around him, on him, the heavy musk of body odour, sweat, and poorly considered intimacy.
His own breath tasted of it all, adding to his own personal hell, a noxious, acidic cloud that could fell a lesser man.

The ground beneath him was merciless. He could feel the fibres of worn carpet pressing into his bare skin. He was on the floor. Naked.
A weight rested heavily on his chest, warm and suffocating, pinning him down. Black, silky tendrils of hair danced across his skin as he thoughtlessly shoved it aside, letting out a soft gasp of exertion as he free himself, only to find more restraints twisted around his legs.
With a bit more care, he untangled the limbs entwined with his own, gently placing them back beside the naked body they belonged to.
The woman murmured but didn’t stir. He couldn’t see her face—turned away and buried beneath the mop of wild, unruly hair—but from the rest of her, she didn’t look familiar.
Not that he was surprised.

Gritting his teeth, squinting his eyes, Clayton Radshaw fought gravity itself as he finally sat up, instantly expanding his known collection of aches and pains. The spinning world took most of his focus and it felt like he’d left his stomach somewhere far behind.
Motion, it seemed, was not going to be his friend today.
He took a slow, deep breath, even something as simple as that birthed new anguishes in his skull. The aches and trembles slowly subsided and he began to acclimate to his senses.
Again, he breathed deep and slow, letting out another groan. Using the luxurious mattress of the large, expensive bed beside him, Clay pulled himself off the cold, hard floor and sat on its soft, comfy edge. Life slowly came back to his limbs.
That’s when he noticed the second womanly shape, curled up beneath the sheets, with a head of blonde hair sticking out the top.
Anger was his first response, jealousy that someone had used his bed while he slept on the floor. But he was far too hungover to blame someone for something that was probably his own doing.
He closed his eyes and searched in his groggy mind for that elusive, lost serenity.
Then he noticed it—a smell that had slipped by him earlier. Subtle, drowned out by the others, but unmistakably there.
Suddenly, he was alert.
Wolf!

He might describe it to a human as "wet dog," but it was more than that. As was often the case, human language lacked the capacity to describe things it couldn’t comprehend. But Clay knew it. He knew it well.
A wolf had been—or still was—here.

The realisation sent a surge of adrenaline through his veins, vanquishing the weight of fatigue and snapping his senses into sharp focus.
Suddenly, he was awake and standing.
His nose twitched as the taste settled on his tongue, his mind compartmentalising, isolating, diagnosing the new information.
Just like that, he was a coiled spring. Muscles taught, skin itching, the wolf within clawing for freedom, ready to leap to his defence.
He let out a sudden, soft, derisive snort.
No.
It wasn’t his defence it wanted.
It just wanted to fight. It yearned for violence.
Clenching his fingers of his free hand into a tight fist, Clay smirked.
He could understand that.
But if there was a fight to be had here, the wolf would have to wait its turn.

Ignoring the nameless, naked woman slumbering in his bed, his blue eyes only briefly passing over her voluptuous curves, Clay gave her just enough attention to rule her out as the source of his concern.
He took a slow, staggering, wince-inducing step toward the metal railing that marked the edge of his open loft bedroom, which overlooked the cold, industrial concrete floor below. He’d been living in his workshop so long that work and personal life had long since merged, and the chaos of that union was evident in every corner.
Stepping over the second woman still sprawled out uncomfortably on the floor, Clay continued toward the rails. His clumsy attempt at stealth wasn’t about kindness or silence, it was about appeasing his own aching head.
At the end of his short, uneven trek, he was surprised to find—almost as if by magic—a nearly empty bottle of whisky in his hand.
Not one to question the gods, Clay wet his lips and took a deep swig from the bottle, welcoming the expected burn as it ran down his throat.

It smelled like the hole in his memory.
And tasted like resposibility for all the bad decisions he couldn't remember. (well most of them)

With a pleased gasp, he blinked heavily once more—just as a definite sound from the workshop floor below caught his attention.
Naked as the day he was born, long dark hair wild and dishevelled over his shoulders, bottle still in hand, Clay leaned out over the metal railing. His sharp blue eyes swept across the cluttered concrete floor, across his kingdom.
Something was down there.
A thief? A client? Someone here on business?
The cops? A pimp?
A local gang member, sniffing about, thinking of trying to expand their turf—again.

Honestly, who knows who he might’ve pissed off recently.
It could be anyone... <-- hint hint, nudge nudge

Clay cracked his knuckles, adjusted his grip on the bottle and grin excitedly.

The War Room wasn’t built for comfort—it was built for war.

Cool neon light glowed from circuit-threaded walls, casting the steel chamber in shades of ultraviolet and electric blue. Holographic maps hovered mid-air, flickering with static as red pulses marked trouble zones like arterial bleeds across the city. Above, thick cables ran like black veins through the ceiling, and a low thrum of power vibrated the floor like a predator breathing in its sleep.

This was The Bastion’s nerve center. If Halcyon had a soul, it was buried somewhere beneath this chrome-laced bunker—and it had long since been hardened into metal and silence.

Commander Dane Verren stood like a sentinel at the center of it all, shoulders squared, back to the doors, outlined in the pale glow of the command holos. His silhouette looked carved from rust and shadow. At 6’2” and built like a tank that forgot how to break down, he wore his battle gear loose over a black ribbed exosuit—chest plate half-buckled, sleeves rolled to the elbows to expose forearms lined with old burns and surgical scars.

A jagged line of scar tissue crawled along his jaw, and his expression was carved into stone. The cybernetic implant behind his right eye blinked once, reading data lines scrolling too fast for most humans to process. Smoke curled from a cigar clenched between two fingers—half-burned, entirely forgotten.

The war room door hissed open. Hydraulic locks disengaged with a quiet shunk.

Lieutenant Crowe stepped inside, eyes squinting slightly against the neon. Mid-thirties, lean and wiry, his uniform was sharp but battle-worn—like everything in this damn place. A flicker of a retinal HUD danced across his irises as he pulled up a data tablet, already bracing for what he had to say.

Verren didn’t turn.

“Status on Warden Reed.”

Crowe’s boots clicked across the floor panels. “Still missing, Commander. He has been listed as a Code 3, MIA. Last ping placed him outside The Club in Sector Six. Civilian cover intact. No signs of conflict, but the signal cut the moment he stepped inside.”

Verren’s jaw flexed, slow and tight.

He reached for the console, fingers tapping in a brutal rhythm. A 3D map of Halcyon unfolded in the air, buildings rising in wireframe as red markers blinked across the industrial zone—Dock 12, where a dead Lycan had been reported. Three blocks down, a vampire nest turned charnel house. Reeds marker at the Club had flashed And then… nothing.

No link to Reed. No trail.

Just a silence that felt intentional. It had been days with no word.

“I want a full sweep of Sector Six. Scrape surveillance. Tap traffic drones, sewer grids, nightclub optics—if a rat twitched in that district, I want to see it die on playback.”

Crowe nodded and slid his fingers across the screen, dispatching orders to field agents with practiced efficiency.

Verren didn’t stop. His voice was low, sharp, and unrelenting.

“Warden Stone — still tracking intel?”

“Yes, sir. Still active. Running silent, but on grid.”

“Warden Riddenhouse, Investigation status?”

“Active investigation Sir. Running silent aswell, but also on grid.”

“Warden Tilman?”

Crowe paused. “…No contact. Last message was a loose check-in. Since then—nothing.”

Now Verren turned. Slowly. The left lens of his cybernetic eye clicked and shifted focus, scanning Crowe’s face like it was waiting for a lie.

“Then send her a signal. I want her voice on comms, or I want her corpse in a bag. With a missing Warden, I went a check in.”

Crowe hesitated. “Yes, Commander.”

Another blink. Another name. Another ghost on the screen

Wendall.

No movement. No report. A flatline too quiet to be a glitch.

“Check Wendall. Personally. If he’s off-grid, I want to know why. If he’s compromised, I want to know by who.”

Then, with a final command swipe, Verren pulled up the last file.

A face appeared in brilliant high-res—a young woman with chaos in her eyes, Dark hair and a smirk like she knew where all your knives were hidden and liked the thought of them at your throat.

Lexi “Jinx” Vox.

Status: UNTRACKED
Last Seen: Twelve days ago
Risk Level: Escalating

Verren’s stare hardened. His voice dropped, rough as shattered glass.

“Find Jinx, too.” His jaw clenched. “She’s been gone far too fucking long. I want her found. And I want her put back on her leash.”

The room went still again. No alarms. No shots fired. Just the hum of neon and the crackling breath of a city that didn’t know it was already bleeding.

Commander Verren looked out across the glowing map, cybernetic eye zooming in on blinking lights—each one a soldier, a name, a life barely clinging to protocol.

“This city’s unraveling. One Warden at a time.”

A long drag from the cigar. Ash fell like snow across the console.

“If we fall…”

He said it like a vow. Like a warning. Like a line no monster would survive crossing.

“…Humanity follows.”

---

All across Halcyon, Warden-issued comms flared to life at once—pockets, gauntlets, and holsters pulsing with cold blue light like a heartbeat synced to war drums. The Bastion's command code override had gone out. No ringtones. No voices. Just a single urgent vibration and a flashing symbol on every screen: the Warden crest—cracked down the middle.

URGENT
CODE 3 - Last location Nightclub in Sector 6
ALL WARDENS REQUIRED TO DO A STATUS CHECK.
End Transmission

@infinite cosmosLucian

Wulde noticed that Barton was slowing down and dimming his lights as his truck pulled up to a squat, shabby monument sign marking the entrance to a driveway.

They were in a rundown “mixed-use” zone, where the buildings were smaller than the hulking factories and warehouses they had passed earlier; here was a drab assortment of service stations, hardware stores, private medical offices, clubhouses, and the like.

Wulde looked from the sign to the building behind it and frowned. “A church?” he asked, bemusedly.

“I believe the term for this one is ‘meeting house’,” replied Barton, as he turned into the driveway. The headlights swept over the sign just then as if on cue, briefly illuminating faded lettering that indeed read: “South Halcyon Friends Meeting House.” A crunching sound signaled asphalt giving way to loose gravel.

Wulde frowned. “So, we’re supposed to be, what, Quakers, then?” He found that odd; he had always thought that they were supposed to be pacifists.

“You gotta admit, it’s a creative cover,” the other Warden offered.

The parking lot was behind the church, screened by trees and a brick wall; thus, it was not until they were in the back that they could see how many other vehicles had already arrived: only three so far, though one was a crew van that might carry any number of passengers.

Wulde saw no one outside as he dismounted from the truck and looked about the dim parking lot; it was a safehouse, after all, which meant it would not be conspicuously guarded or surveilled. The lighting in the back lot was dim; however, the Warden noticed here and there in the surrounding trees and hedges a glint from what looked to be rectangular arrays of little glass circles. Infrared illuminators and cameras, he surmised.

A plain, locked metal door with a buzzer next to it greeted the newcomers with the unspoken message: “If you belong here, you know what to do”. Barton gave the buzzer two quick presses, and then the two wardens turned to face the camera. Wulde resisted the urge to smile and wave sarcastically.

The door burred and clicked, which upon opening revealed a bare room overlooked by a window in the right-hand wall. Framed in that window stood a plainly-dressed, conspicuously inconspicuous man who gave the new arrivals a neutral, questioning look. Barton produced his phone and announced: “Field Wardens Barton and Riddenhouse.”

The man nodded and pointed to the only other door. “Third room on the right,” he instructed laconically. “There’s a breakroom first door on the left, but that’s for afterward. Please just go straight to the briefing.”

There was another buzz, this time from the interior door, and Wulde and Barton now entered a long corridor lined with office doors, of which only the two that the desk clerk had mentioned were open.

Aforementioned third room on the right was clearly a small classroom, flanked by two small folding banquet tables with chairs arranged along the outer edges. Four other field wardens already sat at those tables, two on each side. At the front of the room, sitting on the front of a small teacher’s desk was a formidable looking middle-aged black woman, who nodded to the new arrivals and said: “Take a seat, gentlemen.”

The assembled group sat and waited for a few moments before the woman seemed to make a decision. She picked up her phone and pressed a button. “I’m calling it, Wallace,” she announced to it. “ “We have quorum. Anybody else comes, thank them for their time.”

The voice of the man at the front desk responded: “Roger,” after which the woman lowered her phone and faced the assembled Wardens.
“Thank you all for coming,” she declaimed in a strong, deep voice. “ “I am Lieutenant Laquita Grant.” Although she spoke quietly, Wulde guessed that Lieutenant Grant could have commanded a small auditorium with that voice, even without a microphone, if she so chose.

Lieutenant Grant scanned the room calmly and confidently as she spoke. “ “You all are here because you got a message reporting a disturbance at one of the warehouses in the Gutterbane. Obviously, you are here because you are to help investigate that disturbance. Just as obviously, I am here to tell you how you are going to do that-“

A hushed yet insistent chorus of electronic chirps and buzzes murmured about the room. Reflexively, everybody looked at their phones, watches or other communication devices. A baffled murmur spread throughout the room as the Wardens read the messages that had just arrived. Lieutenant Grant made a noise at once irritated and resigned as she looked at her own phone.

“ “Right, y’all take care of this,” she instructed. “ “Go ahead and grab some coffee while you’re at it. We’ll resume in five. Make that ten.”

A din of scrapes and rumbles ensued as the gathered Wardens pushed back their chairs and rose, still gazing at their respective devices. Satisfied that he had a handle on the situation in the room, Wulde finally checked the obscure message app on his own phone:

URGENT
CODE 3 - Last location Nightclub in Sector 6
ALL WARDENS REQUIRED TO DO A STATUS CHECK.
End Transmission

The Wardens filed out of the cramped classroom and instinctively spread at generous intervals along the corridor, as if the status checks they were about to give had a blast radius. Wulde took a spot just past a pair of restrooms, then composed his own message:

Re: URGENT
Current status: Attending mission briefing w/6 other Ws, OIC LT Grant.

Wulde then referenced the safehouse address and ended the message. Hopefully, that would satisfy the Commander.

After she had left the bar, it didn't take Sable long to find her way to a local bus stop. She slid her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket as her eyes roamed the city around her. There were several drunken stragglers making their way out of the bar behind her, the smell of liquor permeating from their pores. She rolled her eyes and kept standing still, trying to will herself to disappear in the background. The Ghostfire Dust was dancing through her nervous system, mixing with the snow and alcohol she had ingested just an hour ago. Her body didn't know whether to spasm or drop out. One thing she was sure about- she needed a sweet little treat.

At this time of night, there was only one place she frequented. Taking a small breath, she shifted on the balls of her feet. Thankfully the bus didn't take much longer to arrive. She waited for the doors to open before climbing inside and heading straight for the back. Sable ran a hand along the back of her neck as her hands started to shake. Shit. Her jaw clenched as her eyes laser focused on the other riders. Taking the last bench seat on the right, her hands shot down to the edge of the seat, causing her fingers to grip tightly onto the plastic. She knew she was about to be in for a rather wild ride.

Sable squeezed her eyes shut and tried to focus as the bus pulled away from the curb. She could feel the dizzy spell begin, making her feel as if she were floating. And then, just like that, she was gone.



Fire.

Something was on fire.

The smell of sulfur filled the air as screams echoed in her ears. She could feel her small body shaking as she searched desperately for someone. She didn't know exactly who she was looking for, just that it was very important that she find them. Her eyes darted back and forth in fright, her legs carrying her block after block. Something was very, very wrong.

Turning the corner, her feet caught under something heavy, causing her body to fly forwards towards the ground. She quickly braced for impact as her palms slammed against the broken gravel. The young girl cried out in pain. Shaking, she looked over her shoulder to see what she had tripped over. The sight of the empty, dead eyes staring back at her turned her nerves to ice. Blood covered the woman's face and she quickly realized part of her throat was missing. Torn to shreds.

A loud, piercing scream ripped through her throat and exploded out of her body. She tried to scramble back onto her feet, but she was stopped by a growl at her ear. Sobbing, she slowly turned her head to meet the face of her maker. Her jaw dropped, preparing for another scream as his face neared-



"Ma'am? Ma'am, are you okay?"

Her eyes snapped open, revealing an elder woman at her side, her hand on Sable's shoulder. Two other riders were staring at her from the front of the bus. She let out a shaky breath and quickly released her hold on the seat. "Don't touch me."

Sable could feel the bus slowing to a stop. Pushing past the woman, she hurried to her feet and stashed her hands once again in her jacket pockets as she made her way off of the transport. Her entire body shook from adrenaline, and she knew she was covered in a thin sheen of sweat. Damn dust. While it certainly helped her with her kills, it had one shitty side effect. Well, it had several, but this one was the only one that she was truly pissed about. She didn't know how long she had blacked out on that bus. Anything could have taken advantage of her. Huffing out a breath in annoyance, she stepped off of the bus once the doors opened.

The smell of pastries and dairy hit her senses like a freight train. Her body immediately softened before she made her way to one of her favorite spots- Hemlock & Honey. While the small cafe didn't really suit her vibe, the bread and ice cream were immaculate. It had been the best day ever when she found out the owner was reopening, and now with later hours. Sable didn't give one damn as to why that was- all she cared about was the desserts.

Making her way into the small shop, her mind almost melted with the immediate comfort that surrounded her. She hurried up to the counter and cleared her throat. "Ice water and a hot fudge sundae." Digging into her front pocket for her phone, she pulled it out just in time to see the message popping up onto the screen:

URGENT
CODE 3 - Last location Nightclub in Sector 6
ALL WARDENS REQUIRED TO DO A STATUS CHECK.
End Transmission

Sable rolled her eyes, accessed her tap to pay feature for the register, and sauntered over to a back booth. She slid into the seat before replying to the message with a single middle finger emoji. He'd have to deal with that being her only response. Laying the phone face down on the table, she leaned back into the seat and closed her eyes, letting the atmosphere of the cafe sooth her nerves. It wasn't too much longer until she could hear footsteps, and the smell of the chocolate fudge, approach her. Her eyes widened in absolute glee and she rubbed her hands together in anticipation before hungrily digging in to her little treat.

Nothing could phase her now.

At long last, Andrew Carlino marked Evelyn Godwin down as a no-show and called it a day, closing up his office and migrating thence to the more domestic wings of his house. The first new order of business was to let his dog in from the back yard.

He’d fed Fenrir the World Devourer dinner and let him out just before his scheduled appointment with Ms. Godwin so that the dog wouldn’t disturb the intake process. A perusal of the perimeter security cameras showed that the terrier was entertaining himself with something along the back fence. It must not have been too engrossing, since Fenrir came right away, bobbed tail wagging like a frantic metronome, when Dr. Carlino opened the sliding door and called his name.

Andrew skritched the Jack Russel’s ears and chin for a bit, then indulged in a couple rounds of fetch before leading the World Devourer back inside for a somewhat less than world-sized treat. As he did, he noticed that it was starting to rain. Just in time, he thought with some relief; he was not in the mood for muddy paws and wet dog smell.

The doggy intake having gone more smoothly than Ms. Godwin’s patient intake, Andrew headed into the living room to relax for a bit before turning to evening business. The psychiatrist didn’t have any appointments with Wardens on his calendar tonight, and he had just inventoried his medicines and “enhancements” yesterday, so he had no urgent business at the Bastion. He even dared hope he might have the evening to himself.

As Andrew entered the living room, Fenrir dashed in past him to jump onto his human’s favorite chair. The terrier set himself proudly in the middle of the seat, bright black eyes regarding the doctor with an air of expectant defiance. Andrew was just considering whether to evict the squatter or just sit on the couch instead when his pager went off. He pulled it from his belt and read the message with pursed lips.

URGENT
CODE 3 - Last location Nightclub in Sector 6
ALL WARDENS REQUIRED TO DO A STATUS CHECK.
End Transmission

Code 3 meant that a Warden had gone MIA. The message didn’t identify who that was, nor could Dr. Carlino have guessed, since he was not usually privy to operational details. The upshot was that the Bastion wanted to know where everybody was. Andrew pecked out and sent a quick message: “DR C @ HOME,” then slipped the pager back into its holster. After a moment, he opted to ignore the dog in favor of hitting the couch for a quick nap.

He woke up to a soft wheezing sound at his feet. Fenrir had joined him in his couch nap and was snoring. A glance at his phone told Andrew that he had slept about an hour, and that nobody had called or texted him in that time. That was just as well; nobody seemed to have good news for him tonight. Sitting up and listening told him that it was still raining.

He hadn’t eaten dinner yet, and was getting hungry. He went into the kitchen to make some coffee, and to finish off the tiramisu he had left in the fridge. He had some leftover ziti, too, but the tiramisu would go better with the coffee. As the caffein and sugar stirred in his brain, the Doctor began to realize that he probably needed to head into the Bastion tonight, after all.

A Warden’s going missing might involve, among other things, their psychic state, so it would be a good idea to find out at headquarters who the missing agent was and review their file. The errant Warden might also be due for a visit once they re-emerged from whatever it was they had gotten themselves into. If nothing else, they would want to re-stock their enhancements after having been out-of-pocket for a while.

By the time Andrew was washing up after his supper, Fenrir had awoken and realized that his human was in the kitchen. A clatter of tiny claws on tile heralded the World Devourer’s arrival. The doctor played with the dog for a few minutes before going upstairs to change.

Soon after, now in sturdier, less formal clothes, the doctor came back downstairs and headed towards the garage. As he did, he sent another text to the Baston:

“Coming in. Need info on MIA pls.”

Vex leaned over him, her golden eyes burning with a fierce, predatory glow, breath steady but sharp as she held him pinned beneath her. Her thighs locked around him, legs braced on either side of his body, the strength in them unmistakable.

A low, sultry laugh slipped from her lips, breath hot as it danced over his skin. She stayed there for a heartbeat longer, letting the weight of her presence settle, then with a slow, deliberate motion, she let herself fall back beside him, boots thudding softly against the floor.

One leg still draped lazily over his chest, she reached out with a graceful, inked arm, fingertips snatching up the can that had tumbled away during their scuffle. With a flick of her wrist, she cracked it open, tilting her head back and drinking deeply with ease. Half-finished, she let out a small exhale and a satisfied moan, offering the rest to him, eyes glinting with dark amusement.

Zachariah grimaced when she offered him the half-empty can. Drinking after a stranger wasn’t exactly appealing. But after a beat, he pushed himself up onto his elbows, ignoring the protest of aching muscles, and accepted the can.Cold, cheap beer had never tasted so good. Each gulp erased another layer of pain, washing copper-tinged blood from his tongue and cooling his raw throat.

Her gaze swept the wrecked apartment: jagged holes punched through the walls, shattered drywall scattered like snow, furniture overturned and splintered. A slow, wicked grin curled at the corner of her mouth.

“That,” she murmured, voice rich and velvety, “was one hell of an introduction.”

She flexed her wrist slightly, noting how the torn flesh was already stitching itself back together — a perk of her kind, but even so, she’d need to tend to it later. With a fluid roll, she rose to her feet, standing over him with the easy, feral grace of a predator.

Vex reached down, offering her ringed, tattooed hand to help him to his feet.

Zachariah didn’t hesitate this time. He clasped it firmly, letting her pull him to his feet. Pain radiated through his body as he stood—sharp stabs along his ribs, duller aches in his shoulders and back. He winced, rolling his neck carefully to assess the damage.

“Name’s Vex,” she purred, her voice laced with danger and a hint of playfulness. “Found you crumpled up in some alley, beaten bloody. You were turned and dumped I imagine. Must have pissed off the wrong vampire…”

“Zachariah,” he introduced himself, still holding her hand a heartbeat too long before letting go. “I guess so.” His brow furrowed as he tried to gather the scattered fragments of memory. There had been a club. Neon lights bleeding into darkness. Whispers of suspicious activity he’d been tracking. Then... nothing. A blank space where memories should be. “I can’t remember what happened.”

Vex gave a sharp kick, sending a crumbling piece of drywall skittering across the floor with a dull thud. She sauntered over to the worn-out couch, the faded fabric mottled with age and stains. With a casual swipe of her hand, she brushed away a layer of dust, sending tiny motes swirling in the dim light. With a satisfied sigh, she dropped her weight into the cushions, the springs creaking softly beneath her. Leaning back, she slouched deep into the sagging embrace of the couch, boots landing with a heavy thump on the scratched, battered coffee table in front of her. A lazy smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth as she settled in, surrounded by the quiet disarray of the room.

He nursed the remainder of the beer, buying time while his gaze drifted across the wreckage surrounding them—the overturned furniture, punctured walls, and dust that hung in the air like the aftermath of some private war.

Guilt and embarrassment settled over him. He’d attacked his rescuer and trashed her place. Nice work. Zachariah set the empty can on a miraculously intact side table and limped toward what remained of the kitchen. “Not... to sound ungrateful for what you did,” he said, pulling open drawers and cabinets until he found a trash bag and began searching for a broom, “but... why did you save me?”

Vex slouched deeper into the battered couch, fingers slipping into her back pocket until they fished out a joint—bent and a little crushed from all the fighting. She frowned, giving a soft click of her tongue as she tried to smooth it out between her fingers. “...Damn.” she muttered, but with a flick of her lighter, the tip flared to life anyway.

Drawing in a long, steady drag, she let the smoke fill her lungs before slowly exhaling, the haze curling around her sharp smile. Her dark eyes tracked Zachariah as he moved awkwardly through the wreckage, a faint gleam of amusement lighting her gaze.

“You wanna know why I saved you?” she murmured, voice smooth as silk, edged with just a touch of heat. She tapped ash off the end of the joint, watching it fall in lazy flecks to the floor.

“I’ve got a thing for underdogs, a soft spot I suppose.” She let the words hang, eyes half-lidded as she smirked. “Too many spawn running around, tearing up the streets, causing havoc. But you…” she motioned loosely with the joint, smoke trailing after her hand, “you didn’t look like some junkie who pissed off the wrong vampire. You looked put together. Like you didn’t belong in their game.”

“No one ‘belongs’ to them or in their game,” Zachariah commented tartly.

She took another drag rolling her eyes, the glow of the ember briefly lighting the sharp curve of her cheekbone. “That’s not how the world works Sugar and the fact that they didn’t want you…that makes you interesting.” Her eyes seemed to linger on him for a moment before she took another long drag of her joint.“Look. I have no agenda if that is what you’re getting at. I live in a shithole and run a tattoo parlor.” Her yellow eyes turned to the joint in her hand as she slowly twisted it in her fingers, watching the smoke rise from the cherry “I had a spare room and you look like you needed one.” she shrugged looking back at him “That’s it.”

“I… see.” If that was really the case, then he completely read Vex wrong. However, this was Halcyon, not everything was as it seemed. In this city, suspicion in moderate amounts was healthy for those who worked with the supernatural. “Thanks for taking me in.”

“ Dont’ mention it. Oh, You wont find a broom, if that is what your searching for…” she let out a small laugh watching him attempt to clean up the mess they made.

Zachariah sighed at that and closed the pantry door. “What do you have that I can use?” Emerging from the kitchen, he flapped open the trash bag and began stuffing all the unsalvageable debris into it.

Vex took another drag of her joint, the cherry flaring to life and briefly casting a devilish red glow across her sharp cheekbone. Her yellow eyes narrowed slightly, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips as Zachariah rustled through her barely-standing kitchen with the tenacity of a man clinging to civility.

“What do I have you can use?” she echoed dryly, tipping her head as if actually considering the question.

She exhaled smoke slowly through her nose, watching the grey plume drift lazily toward the cracked ceiling.

“Mmm. Let’s see…” she said, gesturing vaguely with the smoldering joint. “I’ve got a dull butter knife, three lighters that only work if you beg them, a cursed blender, and an overwhelming sense of disappointment in men.”

Her grin widened, sharp and lazy all at once.

“You’re welcome to any of that.”

Zachariah shook his head, smirking slightly. “In other words, nothing I can use to clean. Got it.” He surveyed the apartment again. This was going to take forever. Maybe he should just call in a professional to patch up the room and pay for the expenses.

She kicked her boots up onto the edge of the battered coffee table again, reclining deeper into the couch with the posture of a woman entirely too comfortable amid the ruins.

“But don’t get too eager, Sugar. If you start fixing things around here, I might think you’re trying to nest.”

Vex gave him that look — slow, and sultry. The kind of look that wrapped itself around your spine and tugged. It said she wasn’t joking… but she absolutely was. Probably.

“Or maybe I don’t consider property damage an appropriate thank-you gift. Shocking, I realize.”

She took another drag from the joint, flicked the ash to the floor without a hint of remorse, and let the smoke curl lazily from the corner of her lips.“I consider it a…” she thought for a moment “well…nevermind about that.” she grinned as clearly an inappropriate thought ran through her mind.

“Besides, I kinda like the mess. Gives the place character.”

Zachariah nodded toward the refrigerator with its dented door and exposed coils. “Do you also ‘kind of like’ broken appliances? Because there’s a scrapyard on the east side that might be more your style.” Vex chuckled in response.

Patting his pockets, Zachariah frowned when he realized his wallet and phone were missing. After rummaging through the kitchen drawers, he managed to find a pen and a crumpled receipt. He smoothed it out against the counter and wrote on the back.

“At least buy something that actually works,” he said, setting the pen down on the paper where he’d written his contact information. “Just send the bill to me.”

She let herself sink deeper into the wrecked couch with a long, satisfied moan, stretching out like a cat that had just won a street brawl. She smirked at his comment about billing him. By all appearances Vex looked and lived as if she needed it, but in reality she was the opposite.

“Haven’t had a fight like that in a long time. You fight really well considering you were human.” she attempted to change the subject.

Her voice purred but there was an edge of adrenaline still riding her tone, a buzz beneath the calm. Then suddenly, as if a wire had snapped tight in her mind, her eyes snapped back to him—sharp, alive, deadly.

She sat up abruptly, boots slamming to the floor, elbows on her knees, eyes glowing bright with something between disbelief and amusement.

“You were a fucking Warden.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement—accusation, realization, maybe even admiration tangled in the chaos of her voice. Her grin twisted, hungry and dangerous now, like she'd just realized the rabbit she dragged inside was actually a wolf.